


don't be scared of avalanches (tucked up in my snowy branches)

by blackkat



Series: KisaZabu Drabbles [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Cabin Fic, Class Issues, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed, all the classics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 03:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Kisame gets them out of the way of the avalanche, but only just.





	don't be scared of avalanches (tucked up in my snowy branches)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Kisame/Zabuza Oh no we’re somehow stuck in a shack in the snowy mountains oh no the heat is out and there is only one bed and I am cold blooded oh NO

Kisame gets them out of the way of the avalanche, but only just.

“Shit,” Zabuza says, something like despairing, as he stares down the pass. Where the road used to be is a mountain of unstable snow, with boulders just barely clinging to the mountain’s sheer face above. One wrong move, one misplaced Suiton, and the rest of the snow is going to come down all at once.

“Oops?” Kisame says vaguely, and he’s leaning heavily enough on Zabuza’s shoulder that between him and their swords it’s a strain to stay upright. Still, seeing as he just tunneled through several thousand tonnes of snow and got them out of the path of the worst of it, while practically bleeding out, Zabuza keeps his mouth shut.

“Big fucking oops,” Zabuza mutters instead, and tries to get his bearings. _This_ is why he hates missions in Kumo, beyond the rabid, brainwashed loyalty of every Kumo nin he’s had the misfortune to meet. Snow sucks ass, and Zabuza’s never gotten through a mission without _something_ happening.

Now would be a really convenient time to have Haku around, but of course Zabuza had to leave him with Mei this time. Haku’s a boy, but there’s biology aspects Zabuza has no idea about, and he’d felt it was safer to pawn those sorts of questions off on someone with experience. He’s mildly regretting it now.

“Shit,” he says again, and drags Kisame’s arm over his shoulder, shivering at the icy bite of the rising wind. Farther up the mountain, there’s an ominous rumble, and he grimaces. That’s their cue to get the hell out of here, but the question is, to _where_?

“You should keep going,” Kisame says cheerfully, but Zabuza knows him; that humor in his voice is a cover. “If you move fast you can get through before anything else comes down.”

 _Fast_ is going to be a problem for Kisame, though. He gets offended when people imply he’s cold-blooded, but from what Zabuza has seen, it’s not entirely wrong. He runs a hell of a lot cooler than most people, and he’s been getting more and more sluggish the longer their mission stretches. That last burst of motion as he rescued them from an icy burial seems to have sapped just about everything he has left; Zabuza’s seen corpses with more animation, honestly.

“If one of us dies in fucking _Kumo_ , Ameyuri wins that damn bet,” Zabuza says, instead of what he wants to, which is more along the lines of _you fucking asshole, haven’t you noticed by now that I’m ass over teakettle for you?_ “Like hell I’m letting that happen. There was a cabin on that last ridge we passed, right?”

Kisame blinks, long and slow. “I think so,” he says after a stretch of moments. “But—”

“Shut the hell up,” Zabuza tells him flatly, hauls him up a little more firmly, and turns. The shape of the mountain behind them is mostly familiar, the trees covered in snow but enough of a marker for Zabuza to feel mostly confident that he won’t get them lost. Beyond them is another branch of the road, one they’d trekked up a mile before realizing it was heading in the wrong direction. That’s a benefit now, with the avalanche blocking the road towards the coast, and if the cabin is where Zabuza remembers it, they should be able to make it just fine.

Kisame stumbles, breathing ragged, and Zabuza has to pull him back to his feet, closing his eyes and cursing to himself. One hell of a mission to start out Kisame’s career as a Swordsman, he thinks, bitterly amused, and hauls him on through the knee-deep snow.

The whole cabin trembles when Zabuza slams the door behind them, shutting out the howl of the wind that’s rapidly reaching a crescendo, but it doesn’t come crashing down on their heads, and honestly, that’s enough. Zabuza blows out a breath, mutters, “Finally,” and lets Kisame slide down to the floor. He seems happy enough to slump there, just breathing with one hand pressed to the stained bandage wrapped around his ribs, and Zabuza looks away before his worry can show.

There’s an old metal stove, but no firewood. It figures.

“I’m going to shove my sandal up Yagura’s _ass_ ,” he mutters, letting Samehada and Kubikiribōchō slide down to lean by the door. Samehada finally stops siphoning off the edges of his chakra, which is a relief given the state of Zabuza’s reserves, but since the power’s going to Kisame and his injuries he’s not about to say anything. Rolling his shoulder to counter the stiffness, he grimaces, then heads for the lone trunk sitting along the wall.

The fact that there are blankets and a futon inside is honestly more than he’d bothered to expect.

It’s a small futon, unfortunately, when Zabuza lays it out. Small particularly for two men of their size, and Zabuza frowns as he steps back to survey it, trying to judge the temperature around them. He has his cloak, and Kisame needs the blankets a hell of a lot more than he does right now. But it’s not even full night yet and the temperature has already fallen significantly, even inside the cabin. If they had a fire, _maybe_ Zabuza could make it through the night without freezing to death, but a Katon jutsu will take too much chakra, and Zabuza is too cold to stagger back out into the snow on the slim hope that he might be able to find some dry wood. Knowing his luck, he’ll get turned around in the dark and lose his way, or get jumped by Kumo nin. Or maybe a yeti.

“Shit,” he mutters, but—there’s nothing else to do. Kisame needs the bed. He’ll just have to take their cloaks, curl up in a ball, and hope for the best. He survived cold nights on the streets in Kiri; he can survive this, too.

(Mei, he thinks, in the grim, calculating part of him that looked at the graduation exam and knew knew _knew_ that there was only one way to make it stop. Mei will take care of Haku if he doesn’t make it back. She has two kekkei genkai, there’s no way she’ll kick him out for his abilities. And she’s the most goddamn honorable person Zabuza has ever met; she won’t let anything happen to a kid someone left in her care. Zabuza knows that as well as he knows his own name.)

“Hey,” he says gruffly, bending over Kisame and eyeing the red stain across his uniform. It’s stopped spreading, at least, though after all the chakra Samehada stole, Zabuza didn’t expect much else. “You still alive? That sword of yours might have a hissy fit if you die and I have to carry it back down the mountain. It fucking hates me.”

There’s a low chuckle, and Kisame lifts his head. He’s still pale, but he looks more alert than he did a few minutes ago, and his eyes can focus when he looks at Zabuza. Zabuza isn't sure whether it’s down to being out of the freezing wind or just because they're not moving, but it’s a relief either way.

“She likes you,” he denies, and when Zabuza frowns at him, he laughs. “Well, she likes the way you taste.”

Zabuza rolls his eyes, but only just manages to hide his amusement. “Whatever, she can have another taste in the morning. Come on, let’s get you under the blankets.”

Kisame takes the hand that Zabuza offers, lets himself be hauled up with an arm over Zabuza’s shoulders, and manages not to stagger too hard as he finds his feet. “No fire?” he asks, casting a look at the pot-bellied stove.

“No wood,” Zabuza says shortly, “and I'm not going to waste all my chakra keeping a fire going. I'm shit at Katon, anyway.”

A frown crosses Kisame's face, but before he can say anything else Zabuza kicks the blankets to one side and drops him onto the futon, slightly more gentle than he would normally be. “Get your cloak off,” he says, gruff. “It’s wet, right? And the blankets should be enough, anyway.”

“I think you mean soaked,” Kisame jokes, but he pulls the fabric from his shoulders and holds it up with a faint grimace. “I think it’s freezing.”

At the very least Zabuza has enough chakra for this, could do a Suiton jutsu in his sleep and three-quarters dead. He shapes a hand sign, pulls the water from their cloaks and clothes to send it whirling up, lining the doorframe. It freezes almost instantly, blocking out most of the wind, and Zabuza wonders briefly about the logistics of doing the same to the rest of the shack. It’s probably stupid, though; too much Suiton usage and he might bring another avalanche down on their heads. Besides, he doesn’t want to drop the temperature in here too much.

The sound Kisame makes is almost indecent, and he flops back onto the bed with a huff of relief. “Never thought I’d be glad to be dry,” he laughs, and hauls the blankets up over him with a shiver. Zabuza tries not to stare, but there’s something so vulnerable about Kisame at rest. Something _intimate_ , and he fucking hates it. “So do the Swordsmen’s missions always go like this?”

Zabuza scoffs, tossing their cloaks down on the least drafty section of floor. If it just happens to be between Kisame and the door, well. At least Zabuza’s ice insulation is working. “Only if you’re unlucky enough to get stuck with me,” he says bitterly, and the bite of fury is warming, even if it’s otherwise useless. “I'm pretty sure at least one of the commanders is trying to knock me off on one of these shitty _normal-risk_ missions.”

There's a pause, careful, thoughtful. Zabuza _hates_ when Kisame gets thoughtful. “You’re from the lowest caste,” Kisame says, like it’s a surprising thing to remember. Like he’s managed to _forget_.

With a grunt, Zabuza sits down, dragging his sandals off. Wonders, briefly, if he can heat Kubikiribōchō’s blade once and shove it under one of the cloaks like a glorified hot water bottle. Then he thinks of the faces of Yagura's stuffy, stodgy old council, high caste to the last, if they heard he used one of Kiri's precious swords like that and decides that’s enough to convince him, even if it’s impractical. He pushes up, grabbing Kubikiribōchō, and then presses a hand to the blade as he sinks back down, shaping a hand sign with his other. He’s absolute shit at Katon jutsus, something Mei takes _great_ pleasure in reminding him of, but simple heat is easier than actual flame, even if it’s just as draining.

“What’s that for?” Kisame asks, bemused, and when Zabuza glances up Kisame is staring at him, head cocked.

“Not all of us get a nice warm futon tonight, asshole,” Zabuza snaps, but when he lifts his hand Kubikiribōchō seems to be holding the heat well enough. He lays it down, carefully covering the blade with an edge of his cloak, and—

Kisame's hand catches his shoulder before he can lie down, and when Zabuza glances up in surprise, Kisame's mouth is pulled down into a deep frown, eyes intent.

“It’s too cold,” he says. “You can't sleep like that, Zabuza.”

“I'm not the one who’s _cold-blooded_ ,” Zabuza retorts incredulously.

Kisame flushes faintly, but he doesn’t let go. “I'm _not_ ,” he protests. “Hoshigaki are endothermic, so we—” He catches Zabuza’s flat stare and cuts off, lifting a hand to rub at his nose with a sheepish chuckle. “We can share the bed,” he says instead, and that tone’s his stubborn one, so perfectly set that it gives Zabuza a headache just hearing it. “There’s room.”

 _Room_ is generous. Kisame's about twice as broad as Zabuza, and Zabuza’s not exactly lithe and petite. The futon is narrow even working on normal dimensions, and Zabuza eyes it, then Kisame, with very obvious skepticism.

Kisame makes a sound of amusement, and suddenly Zabuza is being hauled up and forward, tossed onto the bed like he weighs about as much as a genin. Instantly, Kisame pulls the blankets over them and plasters himself to Zabuza’s back, pinning him down when he starts to struggle up.

“You're going to let the heat out,” he says, and it’s light and joking, but Zabuza can feel the coolness of Kisame's skin, several degrees below what it normally is, and the fine shiver running through his limbs.

“You just want a personal heater,” he accuses, but leans out of the blankets far enough to grab Kubikiribōchō and their cloaks. Shoves the heated sword under the edge of the futon, tosses their cloaks on top of the already thick pile of blankets, and then rolls carefully, fitting himself more thoroughly against Kisame's front. He has to be careful of Kisame's stab wound when he flings an arm over his ribs, but it’s easy enough to tangle their legs and lean in, burying his nose against Kisame's collarbone with the blankets pulled practically over his head.

There's a low, rumbling chuckle, all too obvious from this distance, and Kisame wraps an arm around Zabuza’s back, tugging him in just a little tighter. “You do run hot,” he says, faintly surprised, and all but tucks Zabuza’s head under his chin as he settles in.

“Fuck off,” Zabuza says, which probably doesn’t have the weight it could if he was willing to lift his head from Kisame's shirt. Doesn’t mention that he and Haku have shared a bed like this, on particularly cold nights when missions don’t make enough to pay for extra heat _and_ food. At least Kisame doesn’t have icicles for feet, the way Haku always seems to.

Of course, with Haku, there’s the fact that he’s Zabuza’s student, not someone Zabuza has been in love with since he was fourteen.

Fingers curling in the edge of Kisame's shirt, Zabuza forces himself to breathe out, to not think about it. To not consider the weight of Kisame's arm around him as anything more than a desperate attempt to get a little more heat.

There’s a breath, an obvious rise and fall of the chest Zabuza is pressed to, and Kisame's fingers brush across his back. “This happen often?” he wants to know.

“What, getting trapped on a mountain in fucking _Kumo_?” Zabuza asks testily.

For a moment, Kisame doesn’t answer. Then, slowly, he lets out a breath, chuckles even though it doesn’t sound like he means it. “Suicide missions,” he clarifies.

“It’s not suicide,” Zabuza says, rolling his eyes. “Just fucking miscategorized missions. That way they don’t have to pay my full cut.” Tipping his head, he eyes Kisame narrowly. “Like hell you’ve never noticed. Same thing happens with pretty much all ninja from the lowest caste.”

Kisame's hand flattens over the small of his back, and he chuckles, unamused. “Guess I haven’t had a lot of reason to think about it,” he says unhappily. “They do that to Swordsmen, too?”

“Apparently,” Zabuza says, because it’s not as if there's anyone else he can ask about precedence. He’s the first Swordsman from the lowest caste. Huffs out a sigh, because Kiri's social structure isn't what he wants to be talking about right now, and says instead, “How the hell does your clan survive in cold water? Aren’t your clan lands on the northernmost part of the island?”

This time, the grin in Kisame's voice is real, fully amused. “We’re good with cold water,” he says. “Just not _frozen_ water. This is a little cold even for us.”

“Fair enough,” Zabuza allows with a snort, and closes his eyes. It really is warmer than sleeping on the floor, and he won't admit it, but he’s massively relieved that Kisame dragged him into sharing a bed. “Shit, it’s _really_ cold. Those glittery pieces of crap had better be worth it.”

A big hand smooths up his back, slides back down in a casual, familiar motion that makes Zabuza’s breath hitch. “If the councilors heard the Sandaime Mizukage's stolen pearls being called _glittery pieces of crap_ , I think you’d give them all a collective heart attack,” Kisame says, though going by his tone he’s more delighted at the thought than anything.

“Good riddance,” Zabuza says dismissively, most of his attention on the hand on his back. It’s stupid to focus on that when Kisame is pressed all along his front, but—that’s a voluntary touch. It’s not just huddling for whatever bits of warmth they can get, it’s something Kisame is _choosing_ to do.

The arm under his head curves, and as if in response to his thought, Kisame wraps it around his shoulder, breathing out a sigh into his hair. “You're _really_ warm,” he says, pleased, and his fingers slip just under the hem of Zabuza’s shirt to touch his skin.

For a long moment, Zabuza stays frozen where he is. Then, raggedly, he takes a breath, and says roughly, “Unless you want me to get the wrong idea here, keep that shit over my clothes. I don’t give a damn how cold you are.”

There's a pause, so tense Zabuza can barely breathe. Then, carefully, Kisame says, “And if I want you getting the wrong idea?”

“Then it’s not the wrong one, is it?” Zabuza lifts his head, checking Kisame's face, and—

Kisame is staring back at him, eyes bright with something like hope, and the air tangles in Zabuza’s throat. _Fuck_ , he thinks, and surges up, kissing Kisame hard enough that sharp teeth draw blood. Kisame gasps, then makes a low, hungry noise and rolls them, letting Zabuza settle on top of him—

The sudden draft of icy air is an unpleasant reminder of just where they are.

With a hissed curse, Zabuza snags the tangled blankets, tosses them back over their bodies, and hunkers down on top of Kisame's breadth. “Hell,” he mutters. “Talk about fucking timing.”

Kisame laughs, and it’s a loud, bright sound, full of teeth but equally full of humor. “We’ll have to try this again on a nicer bed,” he jokes, but his hands are on Zabuza’s hips and they're not moving.

“It’s a promise,” Zabuza says, and takes another kiss, just because he can.


End file.
